Are Not The Mountains, Waves, And Skies

The Keenest Pangs The Wretched Find Are Rapture To The Dreary Void, The Leafless Desert Of The Mind, The Waste Of Feelings Unemployed.

I Only Go Out To Get Me A Fresh Appetite For Being Alone.

Man Is In Part Divine, A Troubled Stream From A Pure Source.

The Very Best Of Vineyards Is The Cellar

The Simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, Both By Precept And Example, Shows / That Prose Is Verse, And Verse Is Merely Prose.